


Of hope for happy endings

by Altareen



Category: The Last of Us
Genre: Angst, Familial Relationships, Gen, Original Characters - Freeform, abandon hope you who enter here, life goes ever on and on
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-18
Updated: 2016-06-18
Packaged: 2018-07-15 20:38:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7237561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Altareen/pseuds/Altareen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They all had naively thought they could hide it out, escape the cruel fate that has befallen many.Now, they will forever remain in this forsaken city that had oh so graciously spun a web of illusions that could never be reality.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of hope for happy endings

**Author's Note:**

> This was something of an experiment, so any and all constructive criticism is welcome! Thank you for reading! :)

Somewhere, in the middle of nowhere, sits a small, almost abandoned village. Once, it might have been described as picturesque – a settlement at the foot of a mountain, on one side surrounded by an old, sprawling spruce forest, on another by lush green fields, crumbling walls of a proud castle rising above the tree line and a flag blowing boldly in the wind. Once, it had been a thriving city with a vibrant community, home to people from all walks of life… For centuries, people from all over the world had sought the city out for its unique charm… 

These days, most of the once neat structures are derelict, and grey snow covers fields and gardens where beautiful and cheerful flowers used to bloom. No people walk the old alleys, no cars drive on the roads, trams and buses are idle and lie abandoned on once busy streets. Black waters of the river rush uninterrupted, overflowing vast green areas that have grown wild in the summer sun. It is very quiet, no birdsong or sounds of everyday life disturb the strange stillness that hangs around village like a shroud of grief. 

In one of the buildings – a utilitarian cement affair, an ugly duckling among old charming cottages and modern elegance, oddly whole – there is a room, right next to the boarded up entrance lobby. This room that is neither big nor small and normally not in use, just a space cluttered with broken furniture. The lens of a security camera twitches in a corner, hanging on its last threads. A fluorescent lamp hums softly. Two people are inside: An adult and a girl hug each other silently, sitting on the floor next to the door to a corridor leading further into the building. This door, too, is boarded up – old furniture and some metal contraption block the way.

From the other side a comforting voice says softly that it just a precaution, there is no need to cry or worry, in just a few hours everything will be all right. The girl sighs and nods, smiling bravely at the camera. The voice belongs to a middle-aged man, it is his daughter he is trying to reassure. They refuse to even entertain the idea of his words ending up being empty platitudes, trying to push the terrifying thought far away, but it has settled in and spun a small web, a tiny spider skittering across their minds.

It is quiet in the corridor, the others have all moved deeper into the building, going about their daily tasks with single-minded focus. The man – his name is Edward, a kingly name for a shy, introvert person – says that he is going to stay right there, next to the door. A soft thank you and strained silence are his answer. To distract the two serious and sad grown-ups, the girl begins telling a story. About monsters, princesses who slay them, and a happy ending. It is not very cohesive, new details are added as previous ones are forgotten. A rambunctious person, the girl enacts the story as she tells it, climbing all over the ruined chairs and tables and broken marble tiles. Her voice – crying and laughing at times – gets louder and louder, echoing in the empty space.

Time passes. At some point she tires herself out and crawls into the arms of the other person in the room, who had not moved from her spot next to the door, listlessly whiling away the time. The girl whines and pleads until her father gives in and makes a small hole in the barricade blocking the doorway. Just big enough to slip through and hold hands together. A grounding touch, a promise of a future to come.  
With a strange dread in her stomach, the girl looks for the first time at the veins and bruises contrasting with her otherwise unblemished skin. It seems the waiting and the nameless terror of possibilities are finally getting to her, too. She clutches her father's hand and quaveringly voices a desperate 'I love you, dad. Can I come out now?' It has been a long day, however, and there is no reply, no matter how long she waits for it. Worn out, the two adults sleep the uneasy sleep of those plagued by fears and doubts.

For a time, near silent sobs and fervently whispered 'no, no's' and 'it cannot be's', prayers, pleas and entreaties are all that is heard. Then, they fade to noghting, too. Only the lamp continues to hum, a steady and inescapable noise.  
The man wakes up because the small hand in his has started twitching. He prays that it is only a bad dream and grips tighter, his desperation mounting as time passes and the twitches and shudders only increase. Then, suddenly, the hand slips out of his grip and is gone, followed by a short skittering sound of a small body moving somewhere fast. 

Silent tears running down his face, he leans down to look through the hole he made all those hours ago. He does not want to look, but is compelled to do so by the dying hope that maybe, maybe he is wrong. 

He isn’t. 

His darling daughter crouches on the floor, hunched and stiff. Dead eyes full of malice stare at him – a contrast with the familiar, dear face. As if having waited for him to look, his girl jumps forward with a snarl. The hastily constructed protective barrier holds, though. For now.

With shaking hands Edward reaches for the water pistol that lies next to him. Struggling for breath and with tears clouding his view, he stares at the strangely cloudy liquid in what used to be a child’s toy. He can’t bring himself to use it, not yet.

In another room in the building – a makeshift security centre, really – a group of people stands with bowed heads in front of multiple screens. Some are broken, others blacked out. Of those still working, one flickeringly shows two human shapes, one of them unmistakably an adolescent, moving jerkily in the boarded-up room at the entrance. Another screen, leached of all colour, shows a small enclosure outside, where the cause of grief is stumbling around, its moments as jerky as of the figures inside. 

A hand reaches out, shakily covering the adolescent figure on the first screen. A woman unblinkingly stares at it, her face pale and set in stone, with pupils blown wide and eyes as dry a desert. As if prompted by an unheard signal, the people around her clap the woman on the shoulder and haltingly walk out of the room one by one, leaving her alone with the screens glowing in the darkness. Only the ever-present fluorescent hum witnesses the bitter hesitation with which she turns them off one by one. 

She leaves without looking back, following those who have gone ahead. In her broken heart, she will always cherish the memory of her family – her darling girl, her shy Edward. Wordlessly she recites his favourite quote: 

“There are no happy endings.  
Endings are the saddest part,  
So just give me a happy middle  
And a very happy start.”

Theirs had been a happy beginning and happy middle. Now, they will forever remain in this forsaken city that had oh so graciously spun a web of illusions that could never be reality. They all had naively thought they could hide it out, escape the cruel fate that has befallen many. But... although hope dies last, die it does, taking the happy ending with it. She will live on for them, no matter how little she wants to, right there and then. She will keep moving forward, in a never-ending attempt to escape, to live, if only for a little while longer.

**Author's Note:**

> The poem is by Shel Silverstein, you can find it here, though it is very short: 
> 
> http://www.goodreads.com/quotes/467176-there-are-no-happy-endings-endings-are-the-saddest-part


End file.
